Remembrance
by Reyavie
Summary: Wait, that's all she has to do. Wait and everything will eventually be better. Thankfully, he disagrees.


_AN - I am trying so bloody hard to beat down my author's block. It's not even a joke. This piece fought me every step of the way until I was ready to give up on it. So a big thank you to ChampionTheWonderSnail because if she hadn't told me she liked the idea, this would have been pushed underneath some deep dark pit. Post-Epilogue, some ME3 spoilers, established Garrus/Shepard relationship. Also, Garrus isn't the main second character in this. But if I said it bluntly, it'd destroy the discovery part of it.  
_

**xxxXXXxxx**

Ages have passed as far as she is concerned. Sluggishly, tripping over themselves in their slowness, blurring into one another until a moment can't be separated from the one which follows. Time is continuous; one long chain composed of a single endless instant. Like wind in the desert, without beginning or end. This knowledge, she has. Nothing else.

No, perhaps that isn't completely right. She knows two other things; the sort of thought which waits in the background until it is needed and acknowledged.

She likes blue. She wears it, half destroyed clothing, stained with rust and red paint – a tone which she truly dislikes – but still, these are comforting. Blue _belongs _to her, nearly as much as the place she stands on since what seems forever.

That is the first fact. The second is less personal.

She is supposed to wait. It is why the clothes stay against her skin with their acrid scent of ash and rubble – with the red stains which are never-ending and everlasting – and why she keeps quiet as time tiptoes by without being noticed.

There isn't much to be noticed bar those two facts either. Sometimes beings come through – a little shadow by her side, an odd voice in her ear trying to convince her of something, something important. Some of those mention events, skies she hasn't seen, floors she would like to step and so on. They must have thought these were important, cherished enough for her to leave that place. A little foolish. She doesn't know why another sky would matter to her so why should she leave to find it? This one is just fine.

Likely, they were told this. Likely, by her. But then they leave, she forgets and time passes by.

"Been here long?"

The woman blinks sluggishly. Not surprised; she's too lethargic for that emotion, her body a mix of lead and metal as she turns. When was the last time she has moved anyway? She can't remember. But then again, that doesn't matter here; only to wait does. The rest goes by and this male will too. In half an hour – one hour, two, a day, a century – she won't even know his shadow touched hers. She blinks again as the thought tries to claw itself into her memory before fading into smoke.

It doesn't bother her. She would have to remember it in order to be bothered.

"I." The pause is used to loosen her tongue; wet her lips. She has them – even a throat, parched with lack of drink, won't wonders ever cease? The woman allows herself a little smile as a hand – her own – reaches out to sooth the skin over the abused and much neglected part of her body. It allows her to feel. She didn't know she could do that either.

A male sits by her side, hands on his knees and his entire attention focused in her direction. His features shift from peaceful to something different, unnamable. It feels nice to watch them though, she discovers. It feels welcomed. Might be the color blue, the color he is dressed in, all blue and no stains.

She feels a small rush of jealousy over that.

"Miss?"

He asked her something. Her memory is scourged and the words pop up, slow as everything is in that place.

"I don't know." A little shrug is added right at the end. It doesn't matter.

He understands. "I see." He does. The place is already getting to him. It gets to all eventually.

The man has brown eyes. Piercing, dangerous, comforting brown eyes. Blue has always been her color – _she thinks_ – but she finds herself smiling up at those eyes anyway – twisting lips which suddenly exist and obey her – just because it feels right to. It is a little hard; her muscles fight against it every pace of the way but they work – _it is easier to smile than to frown_, whispers a piece of a memory. There is even warmth on her skin now, contrasting with the lack of warmth of her surroundings.

Where is she anyway?

For the first time – she believes, she can't be sure of anything – she raises her eyes to her surroundings and searches for anything. Curiosity, it still exists within her. Glass meets her vision, there's light and wood under her skin; a little sluggish though, oily like it's not real to begin with. Cozy seats. The woman wriggles a bit in the one she occupies, testing the stuffing before allowing her elbows to rest against the table in front of her. How comfortable.

"I just arrived," the male interrupts her observations with an answer to the question she wouldn't make.

"Then you shouldn't stay."

He stares at her and that's not uncomfortable. Places reversed, she would be staring too. Information comes up very fast – relatively speaking – when she isn't forcing herself to think on it. "Why?"

Not to think. That's easy.

"You forget." Wonder is tasted on her voice; it slips through her lips, truth and knowledge as sweet as honey. She smiles up at him again, her hand traveling through the air only to rest on his larger arm. Large, so much larger. Her fingers are long, wiry – _fit for a piano, not a battleground_, someone slips in – and they are hardly enough to circle it. "You come here," she continues, savoring every word. "You walk out. You move. If you stay, you leave things behind."

He looks at her and points out the obvious. "You are here."

"Not completely." Everything which was_ her_ is already gone. The rest occupies that chair. "I'm waiting."

"Why?"

"I forgot," she shrugs again, a little childlike and all but careless. "You ask a lot. Much more than the others." Probably.

"Why do you stay if you don't know why?" _Why, why, why_; Again, he presses. There are too many questions and she can't help but feel annoyed.

She waits because she has to, because there's nothing else for her. It feels right and comfortable and necessary to do so, why should she do anything else? She peers up at him, frowning this time through tresses of black which persist in covering her eyes. "I don't have a reason. I need to and that's all."

The male frowns as well, displeased. He is upset, says the skin underneath her fingers, says that twist of his lips which are just a touch too wide and too dangerous. His eyes are sad, she'd say and her annoyance fades like fog in the late morning. They should be laughing. It is always better when they are.

"You are being ridiculous," her long fingers reach for his face, caress the long cheeks, slip gently on the skin right beneath those lovely eyes. "You will be here for a moment more, nothing else. Then you will be gone and not remember me. I won't remember you. Why would my actions matter? Here and now, we wait."

"But this isn't you." So said the shadows before he came; each and every one of them. The black haired woman, the scarred man, the blue eyed with kind voice and gentle arms. So says he, gripping her hand between his fingers until her bones grind against each other. "This isn't you, to wait, to expect someone to come by and save you. You don't wait, you hunt. You always did."

"I can be tired of hunting. I can be worn-out. I am. I was. Everything is so much better here."

"Here?" His voice rises; no longer soothing. It sounds commanding and her whole body straightens instinctively; like a soldier before inspection. "There is nothing here!"

"_Exactly_." Her own stays quiet, soft, and unsympathetic. "There is me. There is respite. There are no enemies, no injuries, no running, always running, always forcing me to be more, to be responsible for more. To go further than everyone else while they cross their arms and ignore warnings and people die. I don't ask 'why me' anymore, why not another, why should I carry this?" There are red stains on her uniform, her lovely proud uniform and now she remembers why they are there and God help her, she wishes she didn't.

Wait. One minute, one endless moment and she'll forget. Everything will be fine again.

"And then_ what_, Jane?"

"This is a bar." She stops and swallows, her throat dry, even drier than before she attempted speech. "He will come for me and. And. …what did you just call me?"

It is a question she doesn't need to make because, suddenly, she has answers – all the answers that that place denied her – and they blow through her mind like fireworks. Jane, she repeats slowly, her name is Jane. Shepard. Farm brat, soldier and Commander. Hero and traitor and hero again twice over. And this is a bar, realization finally slips in, the place where everything ends, where Garrus is supposed to be but isn't. Laughter bubbles and slips through her lips, insane and desperate.

That is why she is waiting. He isn't there.

"You're not him," the woman tells him.

His eyes are brown and familiar; not like the hawk Garrus always reminded her of but somewhat like her own. Brown, wide and weary.

"No."

He's not, he's not but she knows him also.

"But I say what he would say, what he is saying. In this, we're similar." The man raises his head, eyes closed and head tilted to the side. "Besides, he never shuts up. Outside, I mean. I can hear him still."

"I can't go back." So please don't remind her. "The child…"

"Decides nothing. It was a machine, Jane, an Avatar. Not alive. It can't understand how much you always wished to be alive. It didn't see you after you returned from Elysium, wasn't there when you came out of Virmire, didn't see you stumbling from the Collector base. A machine _can't _understand the wish for life. Just because it says you're not supposed to survive, it doesn't mean anything. You can. You always could. You will."

Again, his hand crushes hers and his certainty flows through her skin like electricity. He stands, she follows and his arms are suddenly around her, stronger than any man she has ever encountered in her short life. This warmth, there is nothing that can be compared to it. Safe. She feels safe, peaceful and all her memories, even the ones which are bleeding wounds in her heart – _Mordin, Legion, Ashley_ – fade into the background.

"And you?" Knowledge floods her mind, nearly drowns her; he is her anchor though. He always was.

"On. I'll go on. Like the others."

"But." More important, more intelligent, wiser. "Not me."

"No." His head shakes imperceptibly. "Not you. First step's always the hardest, Commander. Give it a try."

"And if I can't?"

"You never did manage to give up, did you?" He smiles again – her father, her teacher, her companion and his smile tells her how things can turn out all right. "I'll remind you again. And again and again until you're back outside. Go on."

He steps back.

"Goodbye, Anderson."

Both smile, their hands fall to their sides and no goodbye is more honest than the last touch of fingers, holding until they can't hold anymore.

"Goodbye, Jane."

The bar fades into nothing bringing that world to an end. And finally – for the first time in many attempts even though she doesn't know it – Jane follows.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"And I know you'd want to help out with choosing the kid but there's this girl? Been attached to my hip since we arrived. Cute, has your hair. I'm betting she won't mind a new mom if she's human."

Her whole body hurts. It feels broken; every bone from the tip of her toes to her head, currently pounding like the entire Destiny Ascension is pushing their way within. She adores Garrus' voice, any time, any place but if he speaks one single extra word, she might just choke him with the IV line.

"I really don't get why she's not afraid of Turians. I also thought we were your… the scary thing in kids' closets? Thought about getting Kelly to explain it to me but considering I'd be asking about something scary, she'd think I need a hug or something. Boffiman? Bugman?."

She licks her lips slowly.

"Boogieman."

"Can't be. Bug man makes sense. Boogieman sounds like someone sneezing."

"I know my culture better than you, Garrus."

There is a long moment of pure silence, one which Garrus wisely uses to understand she is awake. Eyes meet hers – blue, loyal and gentle – and that's the last thing she sees before he moves.

"Jane. Spirits, _Jane_."

Her body still hurts, her head still feels like it's splitting apart but Garrus is holding her like she is a newborn, like she's a lifesaver in a storm and her breathing slows down to match his heartbeat. Her mouth opens, almost asking _what, where, why, how_, every question the Commander should and the Leader she became must ask. It closes as Jane wins the fight and she relaxes against his hold.

That's when it hits her. Images come and go suddenly, like a dream within a dream until Jane can't be sure she's remembering or imagining. Only that he was proud – _you did good, child_ – and he's not there. Her heart squeezes underneath Garrus' arms.

_Anderson._

"He's gone, Jane."

No, that's not it, that's not what she wants to hear, that's not right. Whatever Garrus speaks, Jane discards because she knows more than him. Anderson is waiting somewhere, that she knows, decked in blue and kindness. He saved her again, can't Garrus see? He brought her back from the God-child, from that endless plain with no beginning or end. But reality takes precedence with every breath and the dream fades away, flees from her like sand through closed fingers until there is nothing left but vague recollection. Of only two things, in fact; nothing more, nothing less.

He loved her.

She loved him.

The rest doesn't matter.

_Goodbye, dad._


End file.
